The Case of the Missing Pooh
by PrairieLily
Summary: Sherlock is bored, and with his usual standbys both out of town, John comes up with a case close to home to occupy him. Light fluffy case fic, Sherlolly in the background. 2 chapters. For as much as I'd like to claim Sherlock and Greg as my very own, alas, they're not mine, but I'll shamelessly borrow them along with John and the others. No copyright infringement intended!
1. Chapter 1

_This is a fluffy case fic humour piece, written thanks to another of those damned plot bunnies. It's inspired by the obscure yet still UTTERLY HEARTBREAKING real life cold case of… my… my_ _ **favourite**_ _Winnie the Pooh Little Golden Book, "Winnie the Pooh Meets Gopher", which went missing sometime in the 1978/79 academic year, when I was in Kindergarten and had taken it to school in my backpack. For the record, my book was never found, and I believe it was replaced in time, but it just wasn't the same. I feel confident that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson will have better success in finding Rosie's favourite book than I had in finding mine when I was 5… And with that, my Sherlocked friends… THE GAME IS ON!_

* * *

Dr. John Watson bounded up the steps leading to the flat he shared part time with his best friend Sherlock Holmes and his wife, Dr. Molly Hooper. He stopped dead in his tracks to see Sherlock, flat on his back on the sofa, his long legs stretched out and ankles crossed casually. His open dressing gown was draped haphazardly over the edge of the sofa, and a pistol rested loosely in his hand, hovering over the carpet.

"Bored!" Sherlock said. "Booooorrrreeed." He raised the pistol and pointed it at the ceiling.

"Sherlock! What the HELL are you…"

"BOOOOORRRREEEEEED!" Sherlock squeezed the trigger, and a rather loud, yet strangely anticlimactic popping noise was all that resulted.

He rolled his head over to look at John, his expression as blank as John had ever seen. "Well, _that_ was disappointing," he said, letting out a heavy sigh that was, well… bored. John narrowed his eyes in a glare at his best friend as Sherlock allowed his hand, still gripping the air pistol, to drop to his side.

Sherlock rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. "John, you didn't ACTUALLY think I'd be firing a real pistol in a flat with a toddler?"

John sighed and took a breath, silently counting to ten.

"Why you would… no, why you HAVE fired a real pistol - no make that a revolver now that I think about it, inside a flat at ANY time is still a mystery to me Sherlock. But yes, I suppose you know better now."

Sherlock swung his long legs around to plant his feet on the floor, bringing his slender frame around to a sitting position. "John, I am bored."

John squeezed his eyes shut. If this man weren't his best friend in the entire world… as close as a brother… his daughter's Godfather, and the father of his own imminent Godchild… he swore…

"Yes, Sherlock. I sort've gathered that." John sighed deeply as he took his place in the easy chair opposite Sherlock's usual spot of rest and relaxation.

"What about Greg? Where is he? He's usually got something for you." The question was innocent enough. When Sherlock was bored, DI Greg Lestrade nearly always had something for him to occupy himself with. Crimes so minor that Greg simply didn't have time to deal with them, so perplexing that they had brought the DI's own investigative progress to a standstill, or even the juiciest of the juicy – a cold case just ripe for re-opening.

"Oh. _GREG_ ," Sherlock said, with barely contained facetiousness as he voiced the name of his Scotland Yard copper friend. "Well he's gone for the next ten days, off wandering about the Canadian sub-arctic of all places, chasing after polar bears in a glorified jeep. A Tundra Buggy I think he called it. Churchill, Manitoba the pamphlet said. Claims to be the polar bear capital of the world. I suppose it will make him appreciate the London climate if nothing else. In the meantime, I am BORED. BORED BORED BORED."

"Yeah, got that the first time mate. And the second through eighth time you said it as well."

"Molly is gone to a medical conference, so she isn't around and wait just a BLOODY minute…" Sherlock glared at his best friend, narrowing his eyes in a suspicious scowl as the realization suddenly struck. "Weren't you supposed to be gone to that very same conference? What are you still doing here?"

John cleared his throat, sounding rather self-conscious. "I uh… I developed a cough."

"John. You are not coughing."

"Yeah… well… it was one of those… you know…" John cleared his throat, as he was apt to do when he was making things up on the fly, "24 hour coughs. Happens you know, with a toddler in daycare. They bring back all sorts of bugs and such."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and shook his head, knowing damned well that Rosie hadn't shown any symptoms of any sort of communicable disease of any kind. "Well then… good news John. Tag, YOU'RE IT. We need a case. I don't care what it is. And when I say that, I mean I TRULY don't care what it is. I am bored. I need SOMETHING TO DO. While Greg is off chasing photo ops of Ursus Maritimus off the shores of the Hudson Bay, and Molly is at a medical conference doing that thing that responsible doctors do so well." Sherlock smiled sweetly and widely at John.

John thought a moment, then he remembered. Oh, Sherlock was going to hate him for this, he was certain of it. But it would be worth it to keep him from firing an unloaded air pistol in a flat with a sleeping toddler in the next room. Then again, this WAS for Rosie, and Sherlock was bored. Desperately bored. And he knew how utterly devoted Sherlock was to little Rosie.

"Well… alright then. Rosie has a favourite book. Well, she HAD a favourite book. It's gone missing. She's begging for it but it's gone, and it's a vintage copy, older than me even. A little hard to come by."

Sherlock's face fell a little. "Oh no. Not Winnie. Winnie the Pooh Meets Gopher? I love that book. It's the first one I read to her as soon as she was old enough to appreciate it. She giggles every time she sees Winnie's substantial arse trapped in Rabbit's window."

"Yeah, that's the one. The Little Golden Book edition. It's gone missing and nobody knows where it was last seen. It's a rare copy, I think Molly found it in an antique bookstore a few months back. So uh… yeah, if you're desperate enough, there's your case. It would make your Goddaughter VERY happy. And when Rosie is happy, Daddy is happy."

"Yes yes," Sherlock said, "And when Daddy is happy, everyone is happy. Same goes for Goddaddy for that matter."

There wasn't much Sherlock wouldn't do for little Rosie Watson, especially since Molly had announced her pregnancy several months prior and the reality of impending fatherhood had begun to take root.

"Well then, John," Sherlock said, reaching for his deerstalker hat. John knew the situation was dire when Sherlock actually literally donned "the damn hat".

"The game is on."


	2. Chapter 2

"So," Sherlock said with renewed enthusiasm, "the first thing we need to do is to establish that the book is, in fact, missing. Now based upon the fact that I haven't seen it myself in weeks, and nor have you, this leaves Mrs. Hudson and Molly. Now if I'm not mistaken, Greg was here as well to brief me on a case and has been known to interact with Rosie if she's here. Of course since he's off chasing white bears in northern Canada he's not exactly accessible… unless… he's on Facebook, isn't he?"

John squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep up with Sherlock's usual rapid-fire train of thought. He succeeded 95% of the time, but Sherlock was wired on adrenalin and an unstoppable drive to return his Goddaughter's favourite Pooh book to her.

"I believe so, yes. You're thinking Facebook Messenger? Bear in mind we're several hours ahead of where he is right now."

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock said dismissively, as he tapped away on his phone at his usual lightning speed. "This is a cold case, and while it is unquestionably an extremely important case to solve, time is no longer of the essence. The message has just been sent and can wait for him in his inbox until he logs in, which, judging upon the time difference between London and the time zone in Manitoba, taking daylight savings time into consideration… he should receive the message when he returns to his hotel room in approximately…" Sherlock checked his watch, "three hours."

"Right, then," John replied. "So. That takes care of Greg. Now what about Mrs. Hudson. When I asked her a few weeks back, she didn't remember seeing it. Yet in spite of claiming to not be our housekeeper, she still tidies up now and then. Seems unlikely she'd miss it unless it were very well hidden somewhere."

"Well, we'll simply have to question her again. Shake her down. Now there's Molly as well. I'll text her and ask her if she's sure she hasn't seen it and where it may have been the last time she did see it. Now bearing in mind the phenomenon known as "pregnancy brain" she may be lucky to even remember that she is married to me…"

"I'm thinking there are times she may prefer to forget," John muttered under his breath. Sherlock looked at him quizzically, then cleared his throat. "I'm sure her growing belly is an adequate reminder that she's your wife, Sherlock," John said, more audibly.

"Yes… well that having been said, Molly may not be a reliable witness, at least, not until the baby is born. And as that is not scheduled for another two months, three weeks, and five days… it would be preferable, obviously, to locate Winnie before then."

"Alright then, who else is there?" John said, sitting down and grabbing his notebook. "I know I didn't pack it into Rosie's bag for daycare. I'm reasonably certain that neither Molly nor Mrs. Hudson would have either, since Rosie doesn't even attend daycare more than a few times per month and they would be the ones looking after her in lieu. Mycroft barely darkens the doorway and when he does, he avoids interaction with Rosie. He certainly never would have read a book to her. Would he?" John was genuinely curious. The obvious suspects having been contacted and eliminated based on logic, that left the less obvious ones.

"I doubt it," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "Mycroft isn't exactly the uncle type. Mind you, I didn't think I was either, until Rosie was born. So with that having been said, he may have read to her whilst trying to quiet her if he was left alone with her for more than 10 minutes, especially if he suspected that her nappy needed changing, he would have wanted to quiet her so as not to draw attention to the obvious until someone returned to the room. He would then feign ignorance, claiming to know nothing about babies. Which, to be honest, wouldn't be much of a stretch."

"Can't hurt to text him anyway," John said, tapping the pen on the side of his notebook restlessly.

"Indeed," Sherlock replied. "A wise man once said, that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." He sat down in his squishy chair and began tapping on his phone.

"What wise man said that?" John said, with a snort of skepticism.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," Sherlock replied abruptly, as usual multi-tasking with impossible ease. "Right then, I've just texted Mycroft. Even if he didn't touch it, he may have seen it and may remember where it was. Now who else was in the flat…" he said, thoughtfully. He set his phone down on the arm of the chair and sat forward, steepling his hands in front of his face.

"Well, nobody really. We've contacted everyone, now we're just waiting to hear back." John set his notebook down, thinking. "Yeah, I really don't know," he confirmed.

Sherlock's phone pinged with Mycroft's reply.

 _What book? I haven't seen any book._

 _MH_

 _Rosie's book. Winnie the Pooh Meets Gopher. Vintage copy circa 1965. Rare._

 _SH_

 _I have no idea what you're referring to._

 _MH_

 _I'm beginning to think you do, brother._

 _SH_

 _Winnie. The. Bloody. Pooh. A vintage children's book with a metallic golden coloured spine._

 _SH_

 _Oh. THAT book. I may have seen it._

 _MH_

 _Where?_

 _SH_

 _BROTHER MINE. This is my Goddaughter's book. She is inconsolable._

 _SH_

 _MYCROFT. Where is the damn book?_

 _SH_

 _Mycroft, when Rosie is unhappy, I am unhappy. And I know things about you. Embarrassing things._

 _SH_

 _Who do you suppose I should tell first that you are shagging Lady Alicia Smallwood, brother?_

 _SH_

 _Okay fine. I read it to her one day whilst Mrs. Hudson was taking an extended phone call. The child was fussing. She was annoying me._

 _MH_

 _AND?_

 _SH_

 _I finished it, much to Rosamund's delight, and set it down on your armchair._

 _MH_

 _That's it?_

 _SH_

 _I may have bounced her on my knee. Rosie McPeanut was extremely endearing. I had a weak moment._

 _MH_

 _Rosie McPeanut? I KNEW IT. You DO have a soft spot._

 _SH_

 _I most CERTAINLY do NOT. And I will deny it wholeheartedly._

 _MH_

 _Where is the book, Mycroft?_

 _SH_

 _Molly came in before I left and sat in your chair. She may have moved it but I don't recall where she placed it._

 _MH_

 _Molly doesn't remember it. But she still may have seen it._

 _SH_

 _I've told you all I know. Good luck, brother mine._

 _MH_

"Well?" John asked. "Given the amount of time that took, he must know something.

"Indeed," Sherlock said, thinking. "Mycroft admits to reading the book to Rosie but claims that he set it on my chair, where Molly then sat after moving the book. He doesn't recall where she may have placed it. And Molly is unlikely to remember either."

John stood up and began to pace around, thinking out loud. "Well then. If I were Sherlock Holmes's pregnant wife, where would I put a children's book if I were simply moving it out of my way."

"That is a very disturbing mental image, John," Sherlock said, shuddering mildly. "VERY disturbing."

"Well no argument there, mate. But where would you place an object that was on a piece of furniture that you were about to use and it was in your way."

"Depends upon the object, I suppose… Oh… wait… wait…" Sherlock's face lit up with sudden revelation.

"What do I normally have on the side table next to my chair?"

"Crumbs and the shattered hopes of rejected clients?" John replied with a sarcastic grin.

"Besides that," Sherlock said, ignoring John's cheek. "Books, John. I have books. And they are always removed in alphabetical order based upon the subject I'm researching at any given time and placed on the side table as I finish with them. So what was our case at the time of the last known sighting of Winnie?"

"Oh, now that's a good question. Let me think… oh wait… was it the mime who thought her husband was lacing her makeup with topical ketamine? Maybe you were looking up topical hallucinogens."

"Perhaps," Sherlock said, walking over to his bookshelf. Pulling off a few well-worn book he glanced at the tops of them, noting no evidence of a book hidden inside any of them. "No. Not that one. Perhaps it was… wait. There are books missing. John, look", he said, gesturing his friend over. "There are at least three books missing here. Mycroft hasn't been in the flat in at least 5 weeks, so what cases were we working on 5 weeks ago?"

A thoughtful look passed over John's face. Strolling over to his chair, he sat down, grabbing his notebook. He flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for.

"Ah, here it is. We had a client who believed that his wife was planning to kill him with puffer fish toxin. She's a sous chef at a posh Japanese restaurant, but she lacked the qualifications to prepare the dish in question and was forbidden to even go near it." John looked up at Sherlock expectantly.

"I remember that, yes. The books… where did the books go…?" Sherlock looked up, startled, as Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway.

"What books, Sherlock? Do you mean the ones in your satchel? Molly hung that up in your bedroom closet. She was cleaning in a fit of nesting instinct. Pregnant women do that from time to time. It's perfectly natural." Mrs. Hudson smiled innocently. "I'm glad for it too. I'm not your housekeeper."

"The satchel," Sherlock muttered triumphantly. I've seen it in the closet every single day for the past 4 weeks. How could I have missed that?" He dashed down the hallway, his long legs taking just a few strides to arrive at the doorway of his and Molly's bedroom. John looked at Mrs. Hudson and shrugged. Rising from the chair, he walked down the hallway, following behind.

Standing in the doorway, he saw Sherlock, the satchel emptied out onto the bed, and a small, hardcover, vintage children's book gripped triumphantly in both hands.

"She must have gathered them all up and didn't notice what they were before placing them in the satchel," Sherlock said. "Success! Rosie will be delighted!"

John laughed out loud, until he had a dreadful realization come over him. Oh no. He knew it was coming, he could feel it, he knew his best friend well enough that he could virtually guarantee it.

"John?" Sherlock said quietly.

John sighed. _Here it comes,_ he thought to himself. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"I'm bored."


End file.
